


Beyond the Weight of Submission

by destimushi



Series: The Echoes of Submission [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel makes up his mind, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Christmas market, Christmas time stamp, Hand Feeding, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, sub space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 02:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13114377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destimushi/pseuds/destimushi
Summary: Dean is incredibly mindful of Castiel's need to retain his agency in public and in private. Castiel wants to show his Dominant that he's fully committed to their relationship, and, with the help of a little Christmas miracle, Castiel gathers the courage to do what he's never done before.





	Beyond the Weight of Submission

**Author's Note:**

> This verse has become such a big part of me that there was no way I wasn't going to write a time stamp for the holidays! Merry Christmas everyone, and have a happy holiday! 
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful beta JhanaMay for looking this over. All other mistakes are my own!

Sweet custard melts on his tongue. Castiel chews, mindful, attentive, and swallows the bite of custard bun. Half a shrimp dumpling appears in front of him, and Castiel parts his lips on autopilot, accepting the food and curling his tongue around a lingering fingertip.

Castiel loves dim sum, and Zar decided it was his duty as Castiel’s best friend to fill Dean in on this little tidbit. Not that Castiel’s complaining. Dean had shown up at his door bright and early, two plastic bags from Castiel’s favourite dim sum restaurant dangling from his hands and a Colgate commercial smile on his face.

Castiel worked a red-eye the night before, but it’s been a week since he saw Dean, and the smell of fresh dim sum kicks thoughts of sleep to the curb.

A small piece of gai lan, tip covered in oyster sauce, brushes against Castiel’s lip, and he loses his train of thought. The vegetable is tender, cooked to perfection as it snaps between his teeth. The oyster sauce is tangy, salty, a perfect balance to the sweetness of the vegetable. And Dean’s fingers, forever present, careful, gentle, teasing, and Castiel wonders how he’d missed the look in Dean’s eyes when he opened the door that morning.

Sure, Dean knows Castiel loves dim sum, but he loves feeding it to Castiel more. Castiel scooches closer to Dean’s leg, lays his head on Dean’s thigh, and sighs as a fingertip-ful of sticky rice slips past his lips.  

His mind is quiet but not empty. Contentment wraps around him like a blanket fresh out of the dryer, but he’s not sinking into subspace like he normally does when Dean feeds him. Castiel knows what’s tethering him to reality, gatekeeper to his absolute submission, but he’s not ready. Not yet.

Strong fingers card through his hair, fingernails dragging along his scalp. Castiel looks up through his lashes and finds Dean’s intense gaze focused on him, drenching him in brilliant green. Even if he’s not in subspace, he’s in Dean’s space, and that is a level of comfort Castiel’s still getting used to after six months.

When Dean takes him under, the world fades away. Letting go of control and allowing himself to float beneath Dean’s touch is the single most liberating thing Castiel’s ever done. At first, there was lingering shame and a knee-jerk flood of self-loathing, but Castiel had to learn to deal with that, learn to coexist with his biology in a way he’d never allowed himself to in the past.

Dominants have taken a lot from him over the years, but this thing between him and Dean, this new culture they’ve cultivated, no one can take that from Castiel. Not without a fight, at least, and Castiel’s damn good with a gun.

“Babe, still hungry?” Dean’s rich voice—low and soothing like the finest melted dark chocolate—cuts through Castiel’s thoughts.

Castiel straightens, sits back on his heels, and assesses the state of his hunger. Usually, Dean knows how much Castiel needs, and the question catches him off guard. “I’m full, I think. Thank you.” He kisses the side of Dean’s hip and nuzzles the creased fabric of Dean’s t-shirt there.

“Good boy,” Dean croons and lays a large hand on the back of Castiel’s neck.

Castiel sinks under the weight and lays his cheek against Dean’s thigh once more as Dean eats his own breakfast. His Dominant never eats when he’s feeding Castiel, always making sure Castiel’s had his fill first.

 _His Dominant_ _._

Castiel chews on his bottom lip and savours the faint flavour of those two words. He glances at his tiny apartment through hooded eyes. Sunlight spills through the windows, bathes the room in a splash of crisp morning light. Everything glows with a halo of golden sunlight, and Castiel imagines what Dean must look like sitting at Castiel’s IKEA dinner table, with Castiel kneeling by his side.

It’s a painting of sweet domesticity, of comfort and companionship. Of _belonging_. Castiel takes a deep breath and settles into this softness until Dean musses his hair.

“Wakey wakey, sleepy head,” Dean says. Castiel startles, yawns, and freezes mid-stretch. _Oh crap._ Dean must have seen the flicker of panic on his face. His hand drifts back to Castiel’s neck and squeezes with reassurance. “It’s okay. You had a long night.”

“Sorry,” Castiel mumbles nonetheless, embarrassed.

“I, uh, I thought we could spend the day doing some stuff.” Dean massages little circles into Castiel’s nape. “But we can stay in, go back to bed or something.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“It’s nothing important.”

“It’s important enough you brought it up. Besides, I was going to drop by your place later today if you hadn’t shown up.” Castiel grabs his left knee and twists to the right, his spine popping like a string of firecrackers. “I’m not spending the day before Christmas, and my first day off after a seventeen-day work streak, sleeping.”

Dean hesitates, then wipes his fingers on a napkin and lifts his butt off the chair, reaching into his back pocket. He pulls out two strips of stiff paper, and a dusting of pink crawls up his neck to settle in his cheeks. “Well, I got us tickets to go to the Christmas Market. Then dinner at my place.”

“The one Downtown?” Castiel’s chest squeezes and his heart does a somersault.

“Yeah.”

“With the mulled wine and bratwurst and sauerkraut stand?”

Dean’s eyes gleam. “Yeah, that one.”

“Let me put on some real pants and brush my teeth?”

“Sounds good.” Dean makes to stand, but Castiel pushes him back into his chair.

“No, if you come with me, we’ll never make it out of the apartment.”

“Oh?”

“It’s been a week.” It pains Castiel to say it. God, he’s grown spoiled with Dean around.

“Trust me, I know.” Dean bites back a groan. “Hurry back.” He gives Castiel one last squeeze before pulling his hand away, green eyes flashing.

The thought of Dean plucking his mind from his body and taking him apart one piece at a time is enticing, but Castiel isn’t sure he could work up the courage to do what he plans to do if he lets Dean in now. Getting up on unsteady feet, he heads for the narrow hallway leading to his bedroom.

It’s a physical ache walking away from Dean, and a small part of Castiel wants to cave and turn around and drag Dean to his bedroom by the front of his shirt. Wants to feel Dean’s lips on his desperate skin, feel Dean’s fingers pinch shut the cracks in his soul. The mind-numbing paperwork from the last case had kept him simmering just below the surface of a meltdown. However, near the end of his seventeen-day stretch, it took every ounce of professionalism Castiel could muster to not call Dean for a late night romp in the bathroom at the station.  

He steps into the bedroom, and his eyes home in on the reason for his inability to go under. The little black box sits quietly on his dresser, the edges sharp and the corners sharper. Castiel picks it up and cracks open the lid, checking the contents for the millionth time since he bought it yesterday, and inhales deeply as fresh nerves gnaw at him like rats. With a shake of his head, Castiel shuts the lid and pulls open the bottom drawer.

Maybe the Christmas Market is just what he needs to give himself a little more time.

He takes no time to get dressed, brush his teeth, and attempt to tame his unruly mop of hair. When he emerges from the hall, the little black box tucked safely in his back pocket, Dean has cleaned up the leftovers. He’s slumped in Castiel’s old leather couch, socked-feet kicked up on the coffee table, nose buried in his phone. No doubt answering emails from work because Dean’s a workaholic and his staff has no boundaries.

Not that Castiel’s job has those either. Criminals have no respect for national holidays.

“Hey, I’m ready.” Castiel lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean turns and kisses the space between Castiel’s thumb and forefinger. “Cool, let’s go.”

They take Dean’s car, or rather, his Baby, for the short drive into Downtown Vancouver. Castiel shifts on the bench seat, every movement reminding him of the lead weight in his pocket. Fingers inch toward his leg, but Castiel doesn’t notice them until Dean’s hand clasps on his thigh.

“Whatcha thinking?” Dean asks, fingers caressing the inside of Castiel’s thigh.

“It’s nothing,” Castiel replies too quickly and kicks himself.

Dean’s fingers still, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he turns his attention back on the road while stroking circles into Castiel’s thigh. Before long, they’re pulling into an overpriced underground parking lot a block away from the market.

Some of Castiel’s fondest childhood memories of Christmas involves going to the annual Christmas Market with his family. It’s something he’s always wanted to visit as an adult but he’s never worked up the courage. Even with the new laws regulating dom/sub behaviour in public, there are still traditionalists who like things the way they were. Christmas is a traditionalist’s holiday, and a lone Submissive wandering the stalls is asking for trouble.

People don’t scare him, but getting into trouble that could interfere with his career does, so Castiel stayed away. It puts a bad taste in his mouth that he can visit now that he’s accompanied by a Dominant, but his desire to revisit such an important part of his childhood trumps his bitterness. Not to mention, Dean seems really excited, too.

Dean holds out his hand and waits for Castiel to take it, then waits for him to lead them out onto the street. Dean’s so careful; he only takes the lead when Castiel gives him his explicit consent. Wouldn’t even loop a scarf around Castiel’s neck incase it feels too close to collaring. It’s sweet, it really is, but no matter how hard Castiel tries to reassure Dean he’s not overstepping, Dean won’t take the risk.

Castiel grips Dean’s hand tighter and schools his face into something neutral. Truth is, it’s frustrating to be kept at arm’s length. More frustrating still, is this is all Castiel’s own doing. Dean is like a tempest, wild and generous with his passions, and he doesn’t hold back when they’re behind a closed bedroom door. But out here, where people can see, Dean keeps his distance and respects Castiel’s wishes to retain agency.  

It’s what Castiel wants. Or so he keeps reminding himself.

The line is short. They step through the gates and stop at the mulled wine stall in front of the giant evergreen pregnant with Christmas lights and ornaments. As Castiel sips spiced wine, warmth spreads through his limbs, chasing away his somber thoughts, and he can’t help but smile into his mug.

Dean watches him, and the rosy tint in the apples of Dean’s cheeks makes his freckles pop. “What do you want to look at first?” Dean asks and takes a sip from his own steaming mug.

Castiel takes a quick survey of the market. To his left is a long aisle lined with merchants peddling their wares, but his nose leads him to his right. “Food stalls.”

“Still hungry?” Dean’s eyes widen.

“No, but it’s the Christmas Market, Dean,” Castiel says, voice bouncing with giddiness. “Baked apples, chimney cakes, gingerbread—”

“Wow, slow down.”

“—and brats and sauerkraut and those amazing little German potato pancakes—”

Dean laughs and takes Castiel’s arm as he continues listing all the things he wants to eat, leading them toward the food market. A tiny electric shock thrums through Castiel’s arm and warms his chest. Dean taking his arm, leading him, his nature taking over in a relaxed moment. This is what Castiel wants— _craves—_ when they’re not successful millionaire owner of _Crusin’_ _Classics_ and homicide detective. When they’re just _them_.

The afternoon passes quickly, with Castiel cradling his overstuffed stomach and Dean picking up a few trinkets and alpaca scarves to send home as gifts. The box burns a hole in Castiel’s pocket, but everytime he tries, he finds an excuse to put it off a little longer. The lighting wasn’t perfect; the moment wasn’t right; there was too much icing on his cinnamon bun. Before he’s ready, the sun dips behind the stoic mountains, and artificial lights replace lost sunbeams.

_Crap._

They take a seat on a bench facing the festivities in the nexus of the jubilant fare. The massive Christmas tree glows with a flickering of psychedelic lights; red, green, yellow, blue, each hue dances like fairies in Dean’s eyes. He’s so beautiful, bathed in this ever shifting shimmer of colours, his moist lips parted as his breath plumes with each exhale. His cheeks are rosy from the cold, his nose redder than Rudolph, and his smile shames the moon.

Castiel threads his fingers between Dean’s, filling each gap until not a dust mote can settle between their skin. “Thanks.” He scooches closer until their thighs are pressed just as tightly, Dean’s warmth seeping through two layers of denim.  

“What for?” He turns and kisses Castiel’s temple. A soft thing.

“For staying. Not like you were stuck working a murder. You could have gone home for Christmas.”

Dean shrugs and lays his head on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel freezes, eyes darting, but he melts when Dean brings their clasped hands to his lips and kisses Castiel’s knuckles one by one. Dean doesn’t care what other people think, and neither should Castiel. This is _them_ being _them,_ and there’s no shame in that. “Next year, you’re coming home with me.”

Next year. Like there is no doubt in Dean’s mind they will still be together.

“Guess I better practice kneeling in public.” The words slip out, and Castiel’s shocked to find he means them.

Dean tenses, and he regards Castiel with conflicted eyes. “You know you don’t have to. Never have to.”

“I know. And I know it might never happen, that I might never be comfortable with it, but”—Castiel reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the black box—“with you, I want to try. Perhaps, baby steps?” He balances the box on Dean’s thigh. It’s dark and cold and Dean has a runny nose, but this moment, with the spirit of Father Christmas as witness, could not be any more perfect.

Butterflies from earlier return to flap up a storm in his gut. Or maybe it’s the chimney cake he shouldn’t have eaten.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

“Are you proposing? Cuz that’s totally my job.”

“Now you’re just being pedantic.”

Dean grins and grabs the box with both hands. He pops the lid, then gasps. “Cas?”

Castiel worries at his bottom lip, heart pounding so hard he’s surprised it hasn’t broken through his ribcage. Dean looks up from the box, and Castiel can’t figure out what’s racing through Dean’s head. Fuck, is this too forward? Too much? Should they have talked about it first? He takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out slowly. It’s too late now, so he might as well roll with it. “Dean,” Castiel replies and holds out his left hand.

Dean pauses, Adam’s apple bobbing, then slips the thin, braided strip of brown leather around Castiel’s outstretched wrist and tightens the knot. The leather is warm against his chilled skin. It’s not suffocating or heavy like Castiel imagined and feared.

Something snaps into place, comes into sharp focus, and the world shines a little brighter. It’s not a collar, but it is a physical bond, a manifestation of his trust in Dean. It’s a step in the right direction to where Castiel can be comfortable in his own skin.

Dean stares at the bracelet for a long, silent moment, and when his eyes find their way to Castiel’s face, they glisten with iridescent affection. “Cas—” Dean clears his throat, then continues, “this is—whoa.”

“Merry Christmas.” Castiel takes Dean’s hand, fingers trembling, and leans his forehead against Dean’s. “I hope—I hope this is okay.”

Dean closes what infinitesimal space there is between them until they share the same plume of breath, until Castiel can’t dig himself out of the ancient forest that is Dean’s glittering green eyes. Until the world fades into a mosaic of shapes and colours and bright lights and indecipherable voices.

“This is more than okay, babe. Thank you,” Dean murmurs his gratitude against Castiel’s lips in a chaste kiss. “Merry Christmas. And, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”


End file.
